Velocity School: Where Pitchers Pay to Throw Harder

Peyton Burks, a redshirt junior at Arkansas-Pine Bluff, throwing a bullpen session at Driveline Baseball, a data-driven baseball program in Kent, Wash.

Michael Hanson for The New York Times

By TYLER KEPNER

September 14, 2017

KENT, Wash. — Trevor Bauer is the son of a chemical engineer. Those are the genes he inherited. An engineer, Bauer explained, will consider a problem, develop a process to solve it, then implement, evaluate and adjust until finding a solution. Nothing is untrainable.

Bauer did not want to be a chemical engineer, though. He wanted to be, and still wants to be, the best pitcher in baseball. He succeeded on the mound as a boy in California, yet his peers who threw harder, even by a little bit, made the best travel teams and attracted more attention.

“I was like, ‘O.K., I’m tired of those people getting opportunities over me because I don’t throw as hard,’” Bauer said recently, in the Cleveland Indians’ clubhouse at Fenway Park. “Why don’t I throw harder?”

Bauer threw 78 miles an hour as a high school freshman. The summer after that season, he visited a coach in Texas, Ron Wolforth, to do something about it. In a few years, Bauer became a hard-throwing first-round draft pick and was soon in a major league rotation.

For most pitchers, from sandlots to stadiums, velocity has never been a decision. Anything else in pitching can be learned — from teammates, coaches, even books. But nobody teaches a fastball, it is said; either you throw hard or you don’t.

Dan Straily, a starter for the Miami Marlins, listed his pitches on the bench before a recent game. A college teammate taught him his slider. A major league teammate taught him his curveball. A minor league coach taught him his changeup.

Cleveland’s Trevor Bauer pitching against Boston last month. As much as any pitcher in the major leagues, he embodies the quest to throw harder and more effectively.

Yet Bauer and Straily have shown that the fastball can be taught — by building a better one, in Bauer’s case, or restoring a missing one, in Straily’s. Neither has been an All-Star, but both have become durable, dependable starters, the kind worth millions to teams. Without the baseline of a respectable fastball — 94 miles an hour for Bauer, 90 for Straily — they probably could not survive in the modern game.

Bauer and Straily have both worked with Kyle Boddy at Driveline Baseball’s training center here, where Bauer expanded on the lessons he learned from Wolforth at the Texas Baseball Ranch in Montgomery, Tex. Neither Boddy nor Wolforth pitched professionally, but they have built thriving businesses by teaching each pupil to maximize — safely, they insist — his body’s capacity for throwing hard.

They symbolize, and have helped fuel, the speed game baseball has gradually become. According to FanGraphs, the average fastball in 2002 was 89 m.p.h. It has crept higher in each of the last seven seasons, to 92.8 m.p.h. Rising velocity is changing the sport, and all but shutting out pitchers who can’t keep up.

“One hundred miles per hour is the new benchmark,” said Tom House, a former major league pitcher and coach who founded the National Pitching Association, which runs camps and clinics nationwide. “I think in the next five to eight years, most pitchers, to sign a pro contract, are going to have to show 97, 98, and touch 101, 102. That’s where the research is going.”

That is why, under morning clouds in late June, dozens of young pitchers — mostly on break from college programs — strode purposefully around the parking lots of Driveline’s modest home at an industrial park near Sea-Tac Airport, holding kettlebell weights over their heads or wiggling long sticks (called shoulder tubes, for warm-up and recovery) in front of their chests. They were some of the many aspiring pros who work with House, Wolforth, Boddy and other coaches who can help them throw hard enough to be noticed.

And yet, if they do not know it already, they will soon learn that velocity alone is not enough to succeed at the highest level. The game is too intricate and filled with too many hitters who can adjust. But without that velocity, the rest may never come into play.

“There’s a floor, like: ‘You have to throw this hard, and if you don’t, then you’re not a big leaguer,’” Boddy said. “But people take it way too far. It’s only important insomuch that you need it to get past the gate.”

Weighted Balls, Fancy Cameras

Boddy has several units at his complex, including one to store Driveline’s inventory of brightly colored PlyoCare balls, weighing from 3.5 ounces to 4.4 pounds. (Standard baseballs are 5 to 5.25 ounces.) In another unit, while one pitcher works in a screened-in bullpen, others fire the weighted balls, from close range, at padded walls. Still another unit acts as a laboratory, with 12 high-speed cameras surrounding a mound, capturing biomechanical data while a cluster of computers tracks every movement in intimate detail.

Sean Cochran, left, going through a variety of measurements at Driveline Baseball, where the tools include weighted balls and high-speed cameras.

Michael Hanson for The New York Times

“When you go watch the video,” Straily said, “you can see the hair on your finger.”

Officials from at least 10 major league teams have toured the facilities. Tony Cingrani, a reliever traded last month from Cincinnati to the Los Angeles Dodgers, spent a week at Driveline last fall to analyze his pitches in real time, study the spin of his slider and get a template for his off-season workouts. Dodgers starter Brandon McCarthy visited, too, after experiencing sudden, unsettling bursts of wildness late last season. He said he was drawn to Boddy’s approach.

“It’s scientific, but it’s also just very raw and aggressive,” McCarthy said. “It’s lift-heavy, try to throw hard, less of the art of pitching and more just getting after it. There’s also some science in what they’re doing in terms of pitch development, and I like that it’s an independent place that’s not tethered to a team, where you have to take one person’s philosophy. You go there and you can tinker and play. They’re open to studying everything.”

Boddy pitched in high school, but his arm always hurt and no one could tell him why. He worked as a software developer at Microsoft but was endlessly fascinated by the science of pitching, and probing the secrets to arm health and potential. He started Driveline in 2008 and now works with more than 500 pitchers a year.

The fastest pitch on record is 105 m.p.h., by Aroldis Chapman as a rookie in 2010. Boddy said the maximum, someday, will most likely be 107 to 110 m.p.h. — but more significantly, the velocity bell curve will continue shifting to the right. That is, more pitchers will cluster around 95 m.p.h., meaning that virtually all pro pitchers must be selected from that group. And some will become disposable, a trend that is already evident.

“There’s tons of guys that throw 95-plus, and their average career is like a running back in the N.F.L.,” Boddy said. “They pitch two or three years and then they’re done.”

Boddy tries to stay ahead of this evolution by equipping pitchers with the fastball to compete and the understanding of their craft’s physiology. He hangs the jerseys of his major league clients on the wall behind the bullpen netting: Bauer, Straily, Detroit’s Matt Boyd, Kansas City’s Ryan Buchter and others.

When Straily visits, he said, young hopefuls look at him in awe because they envy his status. He envies them, too, he said, for how hard they throw. Yet Straily knows something they don’t: how to get outs in the majors, without fear. A 24th-round draft choice by Oakland out of Marshall University in 2009, he arrived in the majors in 2012 and started in the playoffs the next October.

Anthony Brady, at left, and Joe Kinsky, at right, working out at Driveline, which attracts young pitchers seeking to throw hard enough to get noticed.

But in 2014, his shoulder ached. His velocity fell sharply, and hitters hammered his mistakes. He was sent to the minors, traded to the Chicago Cubs, then dealt to Houston, where he barely pitched. With the blessing of the Astros — whose general manager, Jeff Luhnow, has toured Driveline and consulted with Boddy — Straily went to Driveline after the 2015 season to strengthen his shoulder. He knew that harder throwers always get more chances, and hoped to raise his minimum velocity back to respectability.

“If I would have just walked into Kyle’s and said, ‘Make me throw 95,’” Straily said, “he would have said, ‘All right, there’s the door, we’ll see you later.’”

From Driveline, Straily said, he simply wanted a foundation, so he could map out his ideal delivery to put his arm in its strongest, most stable position. The adjustments have turned around his career: In the two seasons before starting Boddy’s program, he went 1-4 in the majors. In the two seasons since, he is 23-17, and he said his arm was never sore.

“The most important stuff is the boring recovery work,” Boddy said. “They do tons of stuff that you would do in rehab if you get injured.”

Bauer has never had an arm injury, and believes hard throwers can stay healthy if they move properly. Though he has trained with Boddy since reaching the majors in 2012, his work before that, with Wolforth, helped put him on the path to dominance at U.C.L.A., where he struck out more than 11 hitters per nine innings and became the No. 3 overall draft choice in 2011.

Wolforth started his business in 1993, and a decade ago, he said, teams viewed him as a pariah. He could help pupils throw hard enough to get signed, but mainly built pitchers who could win teddy bears at carnivals, not actual games. In that case, he thought, what was the point?

“There was real criticism: You get a Wolforth guy in 2008, he’s going to throw the ball through a carwash and not get it wet, but I’m not sure he could throw it over the white thing,” Wolforth said. “And now, when we send a guy up, not only can they throw it over the white thing and throw it hard, but they can also recover, and their pitch ability goes very high. We have shifted our emphasis and broadened it.”

Today, Wolforth said, he spends more time teaching mechanics, secondary pitches and command than teaching velocity. He consults with about half of the major league teams and has helped rejuvenate the careers of several wayward pitchers, including at least two former Cy Young Award winners.

When pitchers suddenly throw harder, Wolforth said, they must also learn the right way to decelerate in their follow-through; using Volkswagen Beetle brakes on a Maserati, he said, invites disaster. Wolforth believes that with a comprehensive, individualized program, all pitchers can find their maximum velocity. But that is only part of what they need.

“The radar gun doesn’t tell us if they can pitch or not,” Wolforth said. “It’s a very simple, snap way to tell something, and sometimes it’s not the best way, but people like it because it immediately gives you feedback and it’s comparable.”

The Indians, in particular, have embraced some of the strategies used by Wolforth and Boddy. Four of their starters — Bauer, Josh Tomlin, Mike Clevinger and Danny Salazar — use weighted balls in their training, but Corey Kluber and Carlos Carrasco do not. Every pitcher has a program specifically tailored for him.

Yet even the most carefully scripted training does not always work. Salazar, who missed two playoff rounds last fall because of a forearm injury, spent time on the disabled list this summer because of elbow inflammation. He is the Indians’ hardest-throwing starter, with a fastball averaging about 95 m.p.h., but now he is in the bullpen, an afterthought in Cleveland’s 21-game winning streak entering Thursday.

Kyle Boddy, the founder of Driveline, applying sensors to the upper body of Anthony Brady, a relief pitcher at the University of Northern Colorado.

Michael Hanson for The New York Times

But Curveballs Count, Too

As velocity rises, the theory goes, so do pitching injuries. Both are up this year. But simply blaming velocity may be too simple. Throwing too hard, too often, with improper mechanics, at too young an age — all of those factors can damage developing ligaments and tendons. And the best predictor of future injury is past injury.

Yet it would also be wrong to scold amateurs for pitching to the radar gun. They are only following the new rules of the game.

“Velo is king, at least in the draft process, amateur ball and up into minor league ball,” Bauer said. “Once you get to the big leagues, and you’re here, getting outs and stuff like that is king. But up until the big leagues, velo is king, and in the minor leagues, guys that have poor results but throw really hard get a lot more opportunities than guys that have really good results but throw 86 or 88.”

With so many hard throwers, House said, the traditional starting pitcher, as we know the role now, will soon cease to exist. Future staffs, he predicted, will be made up of 12 pitchers throwing three times a week, with nobody working more than 45 pitches per game or going more than once through the lineup.

To some extent, this is happening. In the last World Series, no starting pitcher got an out past the sixth inning. Only 15 pitchers threw 200 innings last season, the fewest ever in a nonstrike year. Teams eagerly draw from the deep well of hard throwers stocking their farm systems.

“When I first got called up, the pitchers they were going with were guys that were 88 to 92, with sink and cut — veteran guys that could spot it up,” said Houston catcher Brian McCann, a 13-year veteran. “Over time, we’ve realized that the prospect in Triple A that throws hard is a way more uncomfortable at-bat than the other guy.”

Of course, hitters would not be in the majors if they could not connect with straight fastballs. And while velocities are rising, pitchers are actually throwing fewer and fewer fastballs. Just 55.6 percent of all pitches have been fastballs this season, the lowest figure in the 16 seasons tracked by FanGraphs.

Students participating in pitching-accuracy drills at the Texas Baseball Ranch in Montgomery, Tex.

Todd Spoth for The New York Times

Curveball and slider use is up, and Bauer is no exception. Almost 30 percent of his pitches this season have been curveballs, easily the highest percentage of his career. Just under 50 percent of his pitches are fastballs, even though he throws it harder than ever. Better fastballs lead to better off-speed pitches.

“The only way they’re doing damage against some of these guys is to keep swinging for the fences, keep going for the home run,” Scherzer said. “The pitching’s so good now that you just don’t see six consecutive singles anymore. Guys are throwing too hard and have too much nasty off-speed stuff.”

Another overlooked factor in the home run surge across the majors — anecdotally, at least — is a general lack of fastball command.

“I feel like with the velocity that’s been added to the game, the command has gone down, and there’s a sacrifice that’s being made,” said Cincinnati’s Joey Votto, who has both 30 homers and 100 walks for the first time in his decorated career. “There’s more swings and misses, but there’s also more mistakes that are cruising towards the middle of the plate or off for balls.”

Dan Straily of the Miami Marlins was able to rejuvenate his fastball after reaching the major leagues.

Mark Brown / Getty Images

In such an environment, the pitcher with precise command, even with less heat, can still find a way to dominate. Dallas Keuchel won a Cy Young Award for Houston in 2015, and made the All-Star team again this season.

Keuchel, whose fastball has never averaged 90 m.p.h., said he had been lucky to arrive in the majors when the Astros were struggling, because they could afford to be patient as he developed. In a different organization — with more pressure to win, harder-throwing prospects to try, or both — he might have been buried.

“Dallas is an outlier,” said Luhnow, the Astros’ general manager. “His command is worth more than a guy who can throw 98.”

Bauer Is Relentless

Bauer led the American League in walks two years ago, but now he has the lowest walk rate and highest strikeout rate of his career, and has been one of the hottest pitchers in the majors, winning his last nine decisions to improve to 16-8.

But opponents have hit .341 on balls in play, an unusually high number, and his earned run average is 4.33, roughly matching the major league average.

Bauer considers more than those numbers, of course. He believes he moves as efficiently as, or more efficiently than, anyone else in baseball. All he needs, he said, is more strength and power, and sharper game theory. He said his continuing research projects might help.

Bauer has filmed bullpen sessions of his teammate Kluber, whose pitches dart and swerve like few others. A few years ago, Bauer spent $30,000 on a TrackMan device, the kind installed at every major league park. He hoped it would help him understand why the ball came off his fingers and spun the way it did, so he could train himself to repeat it. He also spent $6,000 on a camera that shot 18,000 frames per second.

The investment in his future, and the curiosity that fuels it, has paid off nicely for Bauer. He doubled his salary from last year to this year and now makes $3.55 million, with another raise likely through salary arbitration.

When he first came to the majors with Arizona, Bauer said, trainers worked against him, discouraging his use of weighted balls and long toss, trying to make him conform to their structure. Now, he said, when the Indians promote minor leaguers, the first question they ask is where to find the weighted balls.

“You’re seeing a massive surge in ability level,” said Bauer, who tries to continually evolve and hopes for the same from his sport. He wants to lead the way.

“If I have one really good season and I’m contending for a Cy Young Award, then hopefully it will blow up,” he said. “Because now instead of like, ‘Hey, you stink, these training methods don’t work,’ from some casual fan or Twitter troll, all of a sudden it’s like, ‘Oh, he’s pretty good, and he does this, maybe I should start trying to do that.’

“It will blow up,” Bauer repeated, with an engineer’s assurance. “I need to have one good season.”